


Harry Potter and the Reincarnations of U.A.

by Argeus_the_Paladin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Dudley!Deku, Gen, Harry!Kacchan, Magical Dudley Dursley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-01 08:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17864300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argeus_the_Paladin/pseuds/Argeus_the_Paladin
Summary: "Do you believe in reincarnation, Kacchan?”The answer, of course, is no, he didn't put much stock in such silly superstition.Not that it mattered much - not when he would wake up with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and a pudgy cousin whose hair was naturally green and messy.





	1. Part the First

**Author's Note:**

> 1) First thing first: Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. MHA belongs to Horikoshi Kohei. 
> 
> The biggest inspiration for these scribbling comes from dirgewithoutmusic, who is (at least, in my opinion) an exceptionally talented and wonderful person - but if you are here in the Harry Potter side of AO3 you should have known her already. If not, why are you still hanging around here? Go check her work out this instance!
> 
> The second biggest is Lycoperdon's Our Let It Be BakuDeku MV, available on Youtube. In fact, the two arc-sentences "Do you believe in reincarnation, Kacchan?” and “If we ever get reincarnated... I would want to be childhood friends again” are taken verbatim from her MV. 
> 
> 2) This story is less like a complete, traditional story, and more like a collection of scenes and ideas that roughly follows a timeline. Besides, the fandom in question is Harry Potter. Any plotline worth exploring has already been explored and well done by better writers than I am (refer, again, to dirgewithoutmusic linked above, among a great many other folk).
> 
> That said, I try my best to maintain consistency while exploring scenes and concepts as best as I can.
> 
> Its first "chapters" were written in June 2018 on the first My Hero Academia fanfiction idea thread on the Spacebattles forum (now unfortunately locked and mothballed). I thought perhaps I should migrate what I have got, and what I am continuing to produce, to greener pastures.
> 
> (In hindsight, it is noteworthy that about four months after my first post, dirgewithoutmusic wrote her version of what would have happened had Dudley gotten his Hogwarts letter. Needless to say, hers is vastly different from mine (and also awesome).)

**PART THE FIRST**

***

"Do you believe in reincarnation, Kacchan?”

In Eastern belief, for sworn brothers and sisters it is far more preferable to die on the same day, the same month, the same year, than being so born. Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki perished within minutes of each other – though their passings were not natural or peaceful in the least.

In Eastern belief, those who owed one another enough in one life would be reborn as family in the next, because life might fade and wealth might expire but debts do not. Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki owed each other aplenty – though who owed whom was a matter for debate still.

In Eastern belief, there are bonds that transpire life and death, stronger than nuclear fusion, more mysterious than quantum physics. Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki shared bonds – though be it of friendship, love or hatred remains unclear and not at all mutually exclusive.

All told, it would be more of a surprise if Midoriya Izuku and Bakugou Katsuki had not gotten another chance together.

“If we ever get reincarnated... I would want to be childhood friends again.”

***

Harry Potter was born on a stormy evening, and there was a thunderclap like an explosion as he cried his first. Those first thin wisps on his mostly hairless head were neither black like his father's, nor red like his mother's, but white blond and took a lot of effort to make to stand down. Soon his hair was to grow out of control, which his father and godfather found amusing and his mother not quite so. "Stubborn as Daddy," said his godfather, trying futilely for the umpteenth time to keep the wee lad's hair down.

Dudley Dursley was born on a normal day, and his birth brought great joy to his mother because he was a normal boy all told. Normal, well, except for the fact that he had left his mother's womb with a right abnormal amount of hair, pastel-green and unruly. Soon blond dye became such an integral part of the family expenditure the Dursley could not recall a time they'd lived without at least one bottle stocked in the cupboard at all time. The very best kind money could buy, too; people could fault Vernon Dursley for a lot of things, but sparing expenses on his little tyke wasn't one of them.

***

When Harry came to Dudley Dursley's doorstep in a basket, Dudley was sleeping. Harry's world had included an old man who had lived too long, done too much, made too many mistakes, and Dudley was sleeping. Harry had flown before he could walk, by a bespelled motorcycle twice and once by broom, both in the dead of night, and Dudley was sleeping. Harry had been in a war and had the scar to show, and Dudley was sleeping.

But Dudley was a dreamer, quite literally. He dreamt of excursions and secret bases, and a gang of childhood friends boasting about how great they would be as heroes. He dreamt of a bald doctor who said 'give it up' so callously. He dreamt of little drawings and little flowery scripts in little notebooks upon whose cover was written “Hero Analysis for the Future”. He dreamt of a man who might well be a giant, whose hair was like a lion's mane, who smiled all the time, who was so cool and never lost - “It's all right, for I am here!” that man would say, and Dudley would smile in his sleep.

In every universe Dudley was meant to be less handsome than Harry. Same in this world: he was a bit rounder and had a bit more puppy-fat than most. In every universe he had parents who would want him to balloon like plumpness was all it meant to be a good boy. In every other universe Dudley had thought nothing much about sharing, and all those calories had to go somewhere. In this universe Dudley shared. He shared his ice-cream with Harry, his cookies with Mrs. Figg down the street, and his birthdays was as likely to cause his friends' teeth to rot as it was not: this Dudley was a firm believer of the 'sweet brings happiness' theory.

In every universe Dudley was meant to be stronger than Harry. In this world, where he was neither rounder nor taller than Harry, and the messy raven's nest on his head was naturally green rather than blond, Dudley was still stronger than Harry. Once he kicked a football so high it vanished, and frightened himself for days. “What if it hits a plane and crashes it?” he asked, and Dad and Mum laughed because footballs couldn't shoot down airplanes (not without the right feet it wouldn't). There might not be magic in a wisp of blond hair once swallowed, but it was an inheritance, and inheritance often meant something. In this case it did.

In every universe Dudley had been dumb and dull. This Dudley existed to make up for all of the rest. He looked. He observed. He took notes. He mumbled alone about things that interested him. What he did not do, was flaunt his knowledge; because Dad wouldn't think very much of it. “Bah, eggheads,” he would say, and rap his huge thumb on his head and make a face. “Oooh, I so smart!”

That did not mean Dudley had learnt nothing from Dad. Dad was a dreadfully dreary man, old-fashioned and boring, and cared more about golfing and jokes not supposed to be told in front of children than books and reasoning. Dad was also hardworking with a capital H.

In this world, there was no school of heroes to teach Dudley the words Plus Ultra. There was no television broadcast or Youtube videos of so many face-offs between heroes and villains, flashy and lethal in equal measures. There was no idol who laughed at burning buildings and say “It's all right! Why? Because I am here!” and rescue everyone who needed rescuing.

What there was, was Dad.

Dad, who made himself a fortune and a place in society from a secondary school degree and pure force of will. Dad, who clawed his way from his coal-miner terraced house in Newcastle to a detached house in Surrey. Dad, who hurled himself at problems and jobs until they made him director of Grunnings so he could translate drills into a nice house and two cars and a boy who would never go without material wants. His hands might be huge and clumsy, his neck nonexistent and his etiquette far on the lacking side, but when he lifted Dudley to his shoulder and shoved Harry aside, it was Dudley that was chiefest of his concerns.

(Dudley would think a lot, on those days the family went on holiday to squeaky-clean beaches not scrubbed by his own hands, how one could love so deeply and hate so much at the same time. He would find out many years down the line Dad and Mum weren't the exception.)

But this is important: this Dudley did not think very much of bullies. There were nights he had woken up, sweaty and alone, amid unfamiliar voices and unfamiliar sneers, trapped between unfriendly crowds and a hard place, firework flashing red and yellow in his eyes. “Why don't you take a swan dive off the roof?” he had heard more than once in those dreams of his, along with a drawling laugh and the ridiculing eyes of a dozen boys. More than once, too, did he have a mind to tell Mum like every other child with a nightmare, but he didn't. Mum wouldn't understand or believe anyway.

Besides, dreaming of things that weren't true counted as 'freak' in the eyes of Dad and Mum.

Dad and Mum had told him so often stay away from the freak, and rarely called him anything but that. But Dudley knew better, because the word quirkless rang in his ears still, and the difference between the one and the other was mere semantic. If it was meant to hurt, to belittle, to put down, the actual word did not matter. Mere semantics, that's what it was, and Dudley knew this before he knew what semantics meant.

In every world, Dudley Dursley was afraid of his parents, and this one was no difference. So he sat still and hated himself more every time Mum looked at Harry the way a decent person might look at a dead rat: pest, filthy, you deserve everything that came to you. There was no sludge villain threatening to strangle the life out of Harry to be fought; no, that would be too easy. Instead there was constant scorn and neglect, and just the right amount of put-down to bend to the breaking point. Harry looked like he needed help, all the time, and most of those times Dudley only sat still and ate his bacon.

A moment's courage before mortal danger was a tremendously admirable thing, but infinitely more admirable was constant, unshakable, unflinching conviction in the face of your own family's ill. That courage Dudley did not have – again, because it was infinitely easier to be brave and roaring with righteous fury before an enemy than before family.

(One day he would say "Because you look like you need help" to someone in distress. Except it wasn't Harry.)

***

In another world the boy who was Harry Potter would have been favored by fate in so many ways. In this, he learnt firsthand that life was not fair. It hadn't fair from the day he started looking around and calling the adults in his life 'Unca' and 'Auntie' rather than 'Dad' and 'Mum'. Being stuffed into a cupboard under the stairs, or being fed just enough not to starve, or being called names and treated like a freak and a burden upon the honest, well, that was only an extension of the lack of justice.  
Harry didn't cry. Harry didn't weep. Harry never showed the world Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's words or treatment had any impact on him.

What Harry _did_ , was be angry.

This version of Harry had learnt to swear before he learnt to speak; to make sparks between his thumb and his palm before he could walk; to throw punches, to elbow and to kick shins long before he knew just because he _could_ did not mean he _should._

Despite himself Harry had never thought himself anything _but_ special. He did not tell many about that, of course, less because of manners and humility and more out of self-preservation.  
He was the leader. He was the hero. He was the main character. He was the one who made his own hair grow back in a day. He warped from place to place when he needed a quick escape. He shrank a sweater he didn't like into a doll shirt and nobody was any wiser. He didn't know how he'd managed, but there he was.

More importantly, he made things blow up just by rubbing his palm. This he treasured more than any material possession, and guarded more than his own life.

You see, in every little boy and girl there is a tiny pyromaniac, and why would it be any other way? Fire and light had been the salvation of mankind, the torch in the endless night of the cosmos beyond. It is only later when a child knew fire could burn and explosions could destroy, that fascination turned into a healthy reverence.

Harry never learnt to fear fire, and explosions even less. They were bright and warm and noisy and didn't quite hurt him like it would others. The cupboard beneath the stairs offered little warmth and even less light, and diversion none at all; Harry would take what he could have.

On those particularly hungry nights he burned the sweat in his palms into little firecrackers, like the little match girl in that old book by an even older Danish writer, and imagined himself something other than a little boy in a cupboard under the stairs. Like a hero who never lost, who wore his smile like a weapon, and imagined how amazing it would be to fight villains and never lost too.

What Harry _did_ fear was the consequence of them imposed so arbitrarily. Uncle Vernon loved his peaceful quiet and loved his baby-faced, blond-dyed Dudders so much more. Aunt Petunia hated everything that did not fit nicely into her housewife's ideal like a beauty pageant into a corset. What he feared, however, was not the scolding (because “ _I can do better_ ”) or the expletives (because “ _I can bloody do fucking better_ ”) or the very occasional, very mild violence (because “ _I can blow this fucking house up_ ”), but the insinuation that he wasn't a hero.

Every such time Harry would fall silent and lick his wounds. Freaks could be heroes too, couldn't they? Why, wouldn't they make for even better heroes than the rest? After all, they were freaks, if they died saving a hundred in a burning building, nobody would mourn them. That would be a hell of a good way to go, wouldn't it?

When Dudley dreamt, Harry dreamt too, through fitful sleeps curled in a thin blanket on a bed too hard: a flash of green and screams and a noseless serpentine man on some days, and a toothy grin and a voice that drawled “Die, Deku, die!” on others. The one was what could be done to him, the other, what _he_ could do; and the latter frightened him quite a bit more than the former. On particularly rough winter nights he would wake up alone, and wondered how it would feel to drive someone to jump off the roof by words alone.

In this life Harry had not driven anyone to commit suicide yet. His voice, however, still had powers of its own. Like that one time he saw Dudley almost step on a snake, big and green and black all over. In fact it was just about to rear its head and bite his cousin when Harry raised his voice.

Next thing he knew, the snake was cowering. Harry thought it said something to the effect of “ _My fang-felt apologies, my great lord!_ ” and backed off.

“How did you do that?” asked a wide-eyed Dudley, fear vanishing like the snake slithering away.

“I told that shitstain to fuck the hell off or I'll stomp its head in! Splat, just like that!”

(Years later Dudley would wonder if snakes understood expletives. Harry would clonk him upside the head. “Of course they do, don't be daft!” he would say, and shove another slice of treacle tart Dudley's way.)

***

 

 

 


	2. Part the Second

**PART THE SECOND**

 

“Hey, don't worry about these fuckfaces,” went Harry, that very first time he swore in front of Dudley (against Uncle and Aunt's warning not to). “We're heroes of justice, remember? Heroes always win in the end!”

And why would he not swear? Some bigger kids just punched Dudley in the face, and he was not crying; but his face was swollen and his mouth bleeding; Aunt Petunia nearly fainted at the sight – right before she went back to cooing over how brave her little angel was, not crying (except this time Harry agreed.)

You see, parentage did not decide who would become a bully and who would be bullied; only perceived power. In other worlds where Dudley was fat and porky and a human wrecking ball unto himself, hangers-on and sycophants would flock around him and feed on his capacity to torment victims, poorer, smaller, weaker kids who couldn't defend themselves. In this world, Dudley was quiet and unassuming, full of baby fat that never quite vanished yet, born to doting parents and bookish to a fault. That made him a Victim with a capital V.

Harry supposed that made him a Protector, too. The moment a Piers Polkiss wrecked Dudley's favorite notebook in third grade, he ate a fist full of sparks.

It was the first and last time, for a very long time at least, that Harry would ever have to defend Dudley by force. The next time the big kids got the bright idea of jumping Dudley when Harry wasn't around.

The next day Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia was summoned to the school. Apparently their son had beaten _six_ fifth-graders black and blue without a single scratch, _somehow_. Uncle Vernon handled the matter about as well as a bull in a china's shop, and Aunt Petunia made like a prima madonna with a faint spell.

Dudley got away with a long detention and six apology letters. Behind closed door, though, Uncle would clap his shoulder and say “Atta boy,” and Aunt would swoon around him and mutter about big boys framing her little Duddykins: because perish the thought he would ever do anything wrong.

Except in this world even Harry could vouch Dudley would never do anything wrong.

You see, as a little boy Harry once looked at the injustice of his family and thought to do what an angry boy would do: torment something else that would feel pain and that couldn't fight back, like a dog or a cat. He'd managed to hold back most times, because he was meant to be a _hero_ , and heroes wouldn't misuse their power, damn it! But push a boy like Harry, angry and frustrated and explosive, once too many and you would learn very quickly he wasn't a saint.

Once, Uncle Vernon had forgotten this. He grabbed his collar and pressed him against the wall and shouted at him about “funny business” and his parents. Everything took place so fast: Harry saw red, his fists sparked and crackled, and Dudley _tackled_ him.

It was the first and last time Harry and Dudley physically fought; and for good reasons too.  
The kitchen was wrecked; the sink counter exploded, part of the wall blew up, the busted plumbing was spewing water both clean and dirty everywhere. Uncle Vernon was reduced to simpering in a corner while his demon of a nephew and angel of a son exchanged punches that had no business being so strong, no sir!

(Much later Harry would learn that Dudley was well holding back. Had he decided Harry must be taught a _real_ lesson, chances were high the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead wouldn't be the only one he would have to bear)

Come the next day, Uncle and Aunt were beside themselves with fury. Dudley was grounded, and Harry was not fed. They were locked inside their rooms (or, in Harry's case, his cupboard under the stairs) for most of the day.

Somehow Dudley had managed to get out before the moon was fully up. Harry didn't know at first, because his belly was rumbling, and the smell of food wafting from the kitchen was almost like an illusion of a Harry about to starve to death. It was no illusion, it was Dudley, stealing towards the cupboard.

“Next time tell me if you're mad at Dad,” said Dudley. “I, uh... I know he isn't fair and all.”

“Why bother?” said Harry. “You're the star-child who oh, can do no wrong!”

Dudley said nothing at first. “Am I?” he finally said. “Let's see how it goes, okay?”

Dudley pushed a covered tray of food through the gap in the closet's door. It was filled with things kids their age liked to eat: sweets, bacon and a few sizzling sausages too. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he said. The clock was striking twelve on the thirty first of July.

Come the next day, Dudley's grounding was extended to a week. The emergency nightly food-drop did not stop. It took Uncle and Aunt three days to realize their punishment was going nowhere, and grudgingly admitted Harry back to the table. (“Try that again,” Uncle Vernon growled, “And we'll throw you _right out_.”)

***

In every world, Petunia had been unblessed, unloved, unlucky: the ugly mediocre sister to a beautiful brilliant one, and nothing she did could change her lot in life. Her letter to Dumbledore, turned down. Her efforts to excel in _normal people's_ academic, nothing in comparison to _we have a witch in the family_. Even throwing away her youth, her self-esteem, her literal happiness to one-up her sister in having a rewarding family life before her had nothing. She woke up every day next to a Vernon that was ever looking less like her ideal man and more like a hippopotamus in looks and demeanor – she'd be blind not to notice.

Petunia saw herself a victim; and wouldn't a victim be best fitted to be an arbitrator of justice? It was flawed justice to any sane mind and Petunia was petty, not insane, but what could she do better, really? She was a housewife – and when she'd finished peeking over fences and eavesdropping things not meant for her ears, she'd realized there was a huge hole inside herself where her own person was supposed to be. The same hole that made Jane Austen Jane Austen and George Eliot George Eliot – she had read her share of _silly novels by lady novelists_ , she'd gladly have you know.

So when she was given a choice she brought up Dudders in the only way she thought would grant him justice. She would lay low the high and mighty _Potter_ and celebrate the mediocrity that was Dudders. She would feed him round, and make him into a nice young man who would never feel any want nor any lack of security whatsoever. She would gice Dudders what life did not give her: a sense of self-esteem like a king of kings.

And then that _incident_ happened. Her poor dear son, chubby and bookish and so _kind_ , had turned out to be more like his aunt than his mother. How else could he have blown up half the kitchen just by a throw of an arm, to protect _Vernon_ rather than the other way around?

No, that wasn't the important question – the important question was _what should she do about him now_? She couldn't bear to beat the magic out of him even though the devil sitting on her shoulder was chanting _do it_ like a football hooligan at a derby. She couldn't leave him as he was, because then Dudders would become a danger to himself and to others. And she couldn't just tell him to stop it. She'd told Lily to stop making funny things happen, too. Little Lily had never stopped making funny things happen.  
Petunia was petty and horsy and bossy as it came, and when she was lucid she would know she wasn't a good mother, who became so through spite and jealousy rather than love. But this was true always: she had brought Duddykins into this world, whatever the motive, and that meant responsibility.

So Petunia drew a deep breath, unlocked that little box where she had stashed away her childhood dreams and hope. Inside, there was quill, there was parchment, and there was something halfway resembling a line of address written by her twelve-year-old hand, that began with “Professor Albus Dumbledore – Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry”.

Petunia had written to Dumbledore once: wide-eyed Petunia, curious and hungry for this world of magic as any eleven-year-old would be. Now her eyes were narrow rather than wide, and her curiosity and hunger long soured into spite. But she was a mother now, and that made all the differences.

Albus Dumbledore had, wittingly or not, closed his doors to a little girl so insecure and so jealous. Now that little girl had turned into a concerned mother with a child too extraordinary for her upbringing. Would the oh-so-great-and-mighty Albus Dumbledore that her sister so idolized (and in the end gave up her life for) turn her away – again?

Thrice she took up the quill, and thrice times she put them down again. They said third time's the charm – it took Petunia the fourth time. Hers was a tersely-worded letter, because that was the only way she could imagine talking to Albus Dumbledore at all without her bitterness spilling into the page. _It is not about me_ , she chanted like a mantra. _It's about Dudders_.

It took her three hours to finish a letter of fewer than five hundred words. Petunia really had lost her touch with the written word. First thing she did was steal out of the house like a thief in the night, and the back of her very long neck could feel gazes from nosy neighbours boring into her back.

“You are one of them,” she said sharply to the resident cat-lady, who was standing behind her hedge like she'd been waiting for this rendezvous for a very long time. “I don't have any owl. Do me a favour and take this to _him_ , and don't ask questions.”

Mrs. Figg was an odd sort, and Petunia had never tell the older woman what she thought of her. This time around, her oddness was a perk.

As was, Petunia assumed, her loyalty to the man who was the greatest wizard of his age.

Roughly a year later, the owls came.

  
***

  
When the owls did come, they came in a pair. None of the Dursley knew this, and even Dudley himself would only knew a long time down the line. But they came in a pair, bearing a letter each, and that had made all the differences.

In this timeline, Dudley got the mail like the obedient boy he was. In this timeline, he too was first among the Dursleys to take notice of the strange yellowed envelopes. In this timeline, he seized them both, and a part of him, naturally spoiled by parents so convinced he could do no wrong, felt like he was _entitled_ to do so.

But instead of shouting and jeering and alerting Dad to their existence, Dudley swept them into the fold of his Smeltings uniform.

He had dreamt, you see, of himself taking an envelope in hand that somehow unfurled into a blond man in a striped suit, grinning and laughing like the whole world was an endless comedy. When he had woken up then, “ _This is your hero academia_ ” was echoing in Dudley's head, and he remembered vaguely the thrill and euphoria of being told “ _You can become a hero_ ” - and what it had probably meant to a boy whose entire life had been spent being told he couldn't.

Dudley thought himself anything but hero material. He was too chubby, too bookish and too meek. He hadn't stood up to his parents when Harry was being so poorly treated. On worse days Harry had to protect _him_. Plus this time Dudley had stolen the two letters away to himself rather than giving Harry his due right then and there because he was so afraid of Dad and Mum – how was that hero behavior again?

What he did instead, was run into his room. He turned on his video game and left the music running, because if there was a blond man hiding in his letter shouting “I AM HERE” as he ripped it open, maybe Dad and Mum wouldn't hear over the very loud beeps of eight-bit music, right? Right?

But there was no blond man in a suit. His was a was a very ordinary letter, if a little old-fashioned, penned in emerald-green ink, fastened with a wax seal bearing a strange insignia best described as a capital H with four animals at four corners.

There was no blond man in a suit, but there was magic of the sort that said _witchcraft_ and _wizardry_ , and therefore outside of what Dad and Mum saw proper.

“ _MR. DUDLEY V. DURSLEY,_  
_THE FIRST BEDROOM,_  
_NUMBER FOUR PRIVET DRIVE,_  
_LITTLE WHINGING, SURREY”_

 


	3. Part the Third

**PART THE THIRD**

 

Harry's eleventh birthday approached, slow as molass and stuffy as the second bedroom he was  _gracefully granted_ , quote-on-quote courtesy of his Aunt Petunia,  _by the goodness of our hearts_ . 

He didn't object or swear in front of them (though he did flash that toothy smirk of his). In front of Dudley it was another matter entirely; Harry didn't stop until his cousin had told him he'd uttered enough expletives to get them both expelled from school five times over within the space of five minutes.

Hardly anything happened in Privet Drive those days, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were just so, so rosy about the whole business, like  _oh, nothing happened, your hearing must be off,_ or like  _oh, a tiny bit of a hassle, plumbing people's fault_ . Nobody talked any more about the exploding kitchen or the ruptured plumbing or how Uncle Vernon looked like he'd just had an episode of Newcastle coal-mine deja vu. Adults always had ways to deny strange and unpleasant things having ever existed, and other adults would always be so eager to scarf it all down.

But behind the closed doors and under the cover of year-old dust Harry refused to remain still, if only because he'd got more friends.

Well, friends in a certain sense of the word.

Snakes listened to him now, if not by sheer awe that _he could speak to them_ then by fear; the one indistinguishable from the other, because snakes were by nature afraid of loud sounds and bright flashes and Harry had no shortage of both. Harry did realize he cut a scary figure, his teeth bare and his fingers crackling with a power that could win him battles and cost him friends. Well, it wasn't like snakes had ever been his _friends_ friends.

Deepest inside Harry could concoct a thousand fun things to do with those snakes that would slither so _deferentially_ out of the way when he marched up the drive; and there was nothing to stop him. Nothing, indeed, but a voice deeper inside him that screamed _You want to be a hero_ , and heroes meant adhering to a certain code of conduct.

So he spent those dreary, wet, cold winter days arranging warm nests for his acquaintances far from the trodden path. _Because heroes protect._

He listened to the hissing of snakes wherever he walked, and his feet were fast enough to bring elsewhere eggs so they wouldn't crunch under careless feet.  _Because heroes save._

He had even dragged Dudley along. He didn't know how: Dudley was jittery and shaking, but surprisingly agile with his hands and terribly diligent with his note-taking, and _something_ almost instinctively ingrained told him note-taking would save lives. _Because heroes would work in teams._

He nodded haughtily at those snakes he helped, and glowered at them when they flicked their forked tongues in gratitude. _Because heroes do not suffer bloody idiots._

It was ironic, when you think about it. Snakes weren't meant to be heroic. Snakes were, in this world, the antithesis of heroism. This Harry didn't know, and even if he had he wouldn't care so much. After all, exploding things with his palm was hardly heroic, too, and perish the thought anyone could tell Harry he _wasn't_ meant to be a hero.

So when Dudley came to him bringing that yellowed letter, all hush-hush and way beyond what was regular sleeping hour for eleven-year-olds, Harry was skeptical for but a wink of an eye.

As they pored over the old-fashioned parchment underneath an old lamp-shade joy welled up within Harry. The thought that Uncle and Aunt had been trying to keep a secret from them both and so miserably _failed_ made that mean, unpleasant and unkind part inside Harry inordinately happy. 

But not for very long, because Harry would make all attempt to rein in those parts.  _Because such parts had led you to disaster once._

After celebration came a deep longing. For distinction. For recognition. For simply  _being_ the best. And that meant going to this Hogwarts place by whatever means necessary.

“Now when-” he said, his voice barely kept to a hush-hush, “we go to this school, I swear I'll be the bloody best wizard who ever spelled a spell.”

_When,_ not  _if._ Because Harry had that burning instinct that not only did those schools exist for those exceptional like him, but he was going to it he was going to trump everyone else and  _be the best there was._ Because otherwise there would be no point to Harry being Harry. 

“B-but that would be a little tricky, wouldn't it?” asked Dudley, and his thick lips looked like they were revving up for three-hundred-words-a-minute mode again.

“That's what _you_ are for,” said Harry, and his grin was frighteningly toothy even to himself. “ _You damn nerd_ ” flashed in his head once or twice throughout the ordeal, as did the word “ _Deku_ ”, which similarly died on his lip _._ Harry knew better than vocalize it; because Dudley was _his_ nerd and nowadays nobody disparage _his_ nerd, not even himself.

Besides, it wasn't like his plan had ever been better than Dudley's. No shame in that; because Harry was smart and a smart fellow would acknowledge a smarter fellow.

Behind the cover of darkness and due discretion, the two boys plotted. Planned. Pooled their collective knowledge, each individually already formidable. And a plan indeed took shape: beginning with information gleaned from friendly neighbourhood snakes, and ending with a surprise meeting with a neighbour both were sure nobody quite liked.

In another world, Harry's first foray into that wonderful world where he by right belong arrived like a hero, gigantic and imposing, breaking through a bolted door like it was nothing, wearing his otherworldly, bizarre _wizardness_ like a certain Symbol would wear a smile and an “ _It's all right!_ ”

In this world, the implausibly strong nerd and the unlikely snake-talker carved their own way, paved by the keen eyes of snakes and hammered in by common sense, wit, and boyish enthusiasm.

***

Arabella did not expect young Harry Potter and his cousin trotting into her yard without leave that morning. Nor did she expect the two boys, bold outside and quaking inside (and they had to be: Arabella didn't have the most respectable reputation in Little Whinging), coming straight for her door and knocking so loudly.

She folded her arms like every stout and harsh woman having lived through the dregs of postwar Britain would know how. “Manners, my dear boy,” she said, straightening her bonnet. “'sides, whatever you're talking about, pretty sure I don't know-”

Dudley's hand clamped on Harry's shoulder. 

“I'll do the talking,” he said very quietly.

At the end of the day, Arabella did not know who would have been the better talker: the perennially impatient, pushy and rude Harry, or the equally perennnially shy and meek and polite-to-a-fault Dudley. At any rate it took Dudley five minutes and a lot of glaring from his cousin before Arabella got the picture.

One, her cover had been blown. No wonder Mr. Tibbles was acting up earlier, must have been telling her to keep an eye out on a pair of meddling kids.

“How did you know I was a-”

She stopped just shy of the word 'Squib'. Mostly because that meant explaining to those starry-eyed kids wizarding society could be downright rotten at times. She thought it better to let them think she was a witch too: wand in hand and a broom underneath, bewitching all her problems away with a swish and a flick. 

“We've got  _sources_ ,” said Harry with a cheeky wink just like good old James even back in those darkest days.

And two, said meddling kids have both got their letters. Harry, of course, because he was  _Harry_ and in every possible permutation of the universe being Harry meant being special.

But Dudley?

Well, there was that matter with Mrs. Petunia Dursley's correspondence nearly a year ago. Professor Dumbledore, blessed be the man, had promised to come up with a solution of some sort. 

Except Arabella couldn't at once think why stuffing Dudley Dursley into Hogwarts would be a good idea. Not that it was surprising that Professor Dumbledore, being a teacher, would think nothing wrong with putting into Hogwarts the chubby boy who had hardly had any contact with  _her_ world.

Maybe she was just jealous. Hogwarts was a wonderful, wonderful place she had never got into, sure. But it was also terribly unkind to people who weren't well-bred enough, tough enough, popular enough,  _special_ enough.

So lost in her thought, Arabella didn't notice she'd left the room quiet for a while now – but for the mewing of Mr. Tibbles under the table. When she came around, Harry Potter were staring at her like it was  _Arabella Figg_ who was the Boy Who Lived, not the other way around.

“So, so, so,” said Harry excitedly. “We were wondering about that school supply thing, how the hell-”

Arabella's face went white with horror. “Language, Harry Potter!” cried Arabella. “Your parents would be so ashamed if they heard!”

At once the room fell  _dead_ silent, and at once Arabella realized she had, for want of more eloquent terms,  _fucked up_ .

What happened next? Revelation, in all of its messiness and unpleasantness, came into fruition. There before her sat two boys brought up to believe one's parents were the pinnacle of good and the other's the abyss of bad. Except the truth was more like the other way around (far as wizards were concerned, anyway).

Dumbledore wouldn't like a revelation too early, she thought. Make no mistake, she was as loyal to Dumbledore as any other member of the Order; but at some point even Dumbledore needed a wake-up call. Harry Potter, arrogant and angry and ambitious Harry Potter, warts and all, deserved better than living all his life lowering himself to delinquency because he'd thought his parents were terrible people there was no point in trying.

It was hard enough to tell the boys to just  _sit there_ while she got them a spot of tea. Harry was squirming in his seat. There was so much impatience in his eyes – like you would take the combined temperaments of fiery James and fierier Sirius and throw an  _Incendio_ at the mix. But right now Arabella was in control, and that was good. By Merlin, she'd been taking care of  _kneazles_ for a living!

Arabella was not making tea. She'd always had a jug at the ready for the sudden arrival through the Floo, or an Apparation or two. Let no one say Arabella Figg wasn't a kindly host.

What she  _was_ doing instead was thinking over and over again what she could tell Harry, as opposed to what she  _should_ and what she  _mustn't_ . She sorted everything Order-related into the third basket; unfortunately, that included pretty much everything in the second. There was really surprisingly little to tell the two boys, compared to all that had been during those years it might well be a grain of sand in the desert.

But it was a grain of sand that could crumble their worlds (and may or may not build them new ones)  _Very well, I'll have to make do._

When Arabella carried her tea tray into the living room, she'd had a small drink for herself, and her resolve so much stronger as a result.

“Well, Harry, where do I even start?” she said, sitting down once more, crossing her legs. “Te obvious, I guess. Harry, your parents are  _wonderful_ people.”

From there, it was just a short bit of pleasantry before the sentence turned to “ _You are a wizard, Harry; just as James and Lily had been before you._ ”

The easiness at which Harry took to those words surprised Arabella. In fact, it made her a little uncomfortable: his eyes went goggly, and there was a 'wow' on his lips that quickly turned into a toothy, excited grin. 

“I knew it! Dudley, you hear that? I'm a wizard!”

“And,” interjected Arabella, “if Professor Dumbledore is correct, which he probably is – bright and brilliant and great man, you'd known if you'd read your letter – then you're a wizard too, Dudley.”

She'd half-expected Harry's borderline malicious smile to fade, too. The Dursley hadn't been treating him very well, and boys his age were petty and vengeful to a fault. She wouldn't be surprised if Harry had nourished himself entirely out of a grudge against the Dursley-

But Harry's grin only grew broader. “Dudley, too! How's that, eh?” he cried. “Hey, you heard that, Dud? You're a wizard too! Prolly not as great a wizard as I am, sure, but a wizard! How cool is that, huh?”

He grabbed the poor boy's shoulder and shook them until Dudley went a bit pale in the face. It would be kind of cute, if not for the fact that her rickety sofa wasn't designed with two rambunctious boys in mind, and there wasn't going to be any  _Reparo_ handy any time soon.

“Ahem. Now I wouldn't begrudge you boys some celebrations, but if you would  _sit down and behave yourselves_ . There's a lot you've to take in, not all of them good ones.”

Dudley calmed down at once and sat down with arms folded cross his lap. Harry took a bit more time, and never let his eyes wander too far from Arabella, as if reminding her she wasn't weaseling her way out of this reveal. Good. She had no intention to at this point: the two boys were going to  _Hogwarts_ and that meant there were things they needed to know.

So she told the two boys what she thought they needed to know. Of James and Lily Potter, Head Boy and Head Girl of their days at Hogwarts. Of the evilest, darkest wizard of their age (she couldn't bear to say the name out loud – luckily she had a rather large supply of mundane pen and paper around). Of that great wizarding war (well, a kid's version thereof, anyway) and how it ended.

When she was done, Harry was white and so was Dudley. Harry's hands were clenched into sweaty fists and lips trembling. Arabella needed no Legilimency to tell how much of an emotional storm was brewing inside the Boy Who Lived.

“So, to recap,” said Harry through gnashed teeth. “This Voldemort murdered my parents. Then he tried to kill me. And I somehow blew him up.” His hands glowed embers. “Lucky he's _fucking_ _dead._ ” He didn't say the rest of his train of thought, but Arabella suspected _I'd beat the_ shit _out of him if he weren't_ was part of it.

“I doubt he's  _dead_ dead though,” said Arabella. “Cruel magic can do... terrible, terrible things.”

She left the rest of the statement unspoken – partly because she  _really_ had no knowledge of that matter save for hearsays, partly because a pair of eleven-year-olds had no business knowing the grimmer side of magic, and partly because Dudley was fidgeting in his seat. She wasn't sure if he was afraid, or whipped into a frenzy like his cousin too and was only too nice to react with anything less than immaculate politeness.

She let the boys have their moment of time-out before the next elephant in the room. 

“Point is, Harry, you're  _famous_ ,” she said, drawing a stiff breath. “Survived a curse meant to kill without fail! Destroyed the Dark Lord who'd felled far older and more experienced wizards than your own parents! Ended a reign of terror of a decade! You did all of that before you were two, Harry. Every child knows your name, books are written about you, and-”

Even as Arabella spoke she wasn't sure if she'd done the right thing. A Harry so thoroughly cowed by his uncle and aunt might not let fame get so easily to his head, but the Harry in front of her... he was practically jumping with joy when told he could be a wizard! Suddenly Dumbledore's choice made so much sense: Harry Potter  _was_ susceptible to letting fame get to him. 

“Now,” she said, so very afraid of what she had done. “I should hope you wouldn't flaunt your fame too much, because-”

But Harry's face was stone-cold. “It doesn't matter,” he said.

Arabella blinked. “Oh?”

“Mrs. Figg, I don't care about fame that I haven't made myself,” he said. “And especially not fame from blowing up the shithead who killed my parents. If I'm to be famous, it has damn well be something worth it. Like... being the strongest wizard ever.”

Oh, there it was. So headstrong, so much like the James who'd wrestle a magical snake if it helped the cause. She took back what she said before: James would be so damn proud to know his son. Lily? Well, maybe less so, but one out of two wasn't bad.

“Anyway, Mrs. Figg,” said Dudley hastily, like he was in such a hurry to make everyone drop the uncomfortable topic. “They said we have to get this list-” He put his letter on the table. “-of school supplies, and we aren't sure if-”

It was all Arabella could do to hold back her laughter.

“Ah, Hogwarts' getting a bit iffy these days. Normally they'd have to send a teacher to help a muggleborn – that's you – along the way on their first trip to Diagon Alley and beyond! Looks like something's keeping good old Dumbledore. I'll see what I can do about that.”

“Aren't you going with us?” said Dudley hopefully.

“Not me, dearie,” Arabella said. “But only because you  _deserve_ someone better to guide you into this wonderfully bizarre world of ours.”

Which was to say, a lot. Owls would need to be sent, first thing in the morning.

“Oh, and before you forget,” she said just as the boys were leaving. “Do tell your Mum it would be good if I could come over for tea as soon as she can make time. Lots of business to discuss...” 

 

 


	4. Part the Fourth

**PART THE FOURTH**

It was a normal day at Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. With an exception of two things.

One, it was the Tuesday before Harry's birthday. Still no birthday present incoming from Dudley's Dad and Mum, obviously. Dudley didn't know if Harry's boasting that the neighbourhood snakes were throwing a party for him was what it was – a boast. He'd got his plan for his cousin either way. His fingers recalled a lifetime of drawing and scribbling on notebook paper; a not insignificant talent in all circumstances. If all else fail a drawing made for a fine present – and not at all insignificant at that!

And two, said plan was utterly dwarfed to irrelevance by the unceremonious arrival of _someone from Hogwarts_.

Mr. Filius Flitwick at first sight looked like a vastly smaller version of an elderly member of the British peerage. Mustache well groomed, check. Well-ironed black suit without a single crumple, check. A wicked-looking tie, an impressively tall bowler, and a monocle that wouldn't go out of place in a 19th-century period-piece, check, check and check.

Dudley spotted him walking past the lawn long before he pressed the doorbell with the end of his walking-cane – he was just that short. Certainly long before Dad, red-faced and trembling with both fear and anger, unceremoniously shooed him out of his room and into the overly-lit living room beneath.

It was, in hindsight, a meeting between a teacher and the parents of a prospective student. And yet the living room had all the making of a war council discussing the turning point of a grievous conflict: teeth bared, voices raised, eyes flaring with so much anger and nervousness and _displeasure_. Most of which were Dad's doing, as normal, but Dad's size alone made his attitude about five times as weighty.

Harry was fidgeting in his seat; Dudley had scarcely forgotten how scary that toothy smirk and uncontrollable firecrackers within his palm could be when he was excited. Part of Dudley was scared, too, because the man had introduced himself as a _Charms_ teacher and the terminology was wont to bring to mind some unpleasant images.

But for the most part Dad and Mum were not looking at him; Dad was entirely confused by this gremlin of a man entreating him to _business etiquette_ , while Mum was just... looking. Craning her neck. Narrowing her eyes. Twitching her lips in odd ways that Dudley could not tell at once whether such were unwelcome comments or unbidden slurs, or something else entirely.

(It was only later that Dudley realized she was gesturing towards Dad. Knowing Dad, though, much of her signalling probably did not register.)

If Mr. Flitwick had been at all displeased he did not say as much. In fact he said not a word of complaint; his demeanour, nothing less than immaculate. For a dwarvishly tiny man in a suit, Mr. Flitwick tipped his hat, bowed and carried himself like a most respectable member of the peerage – or failing that, of the business world and to Dad that was nearly as good. Not that it stemmed Dad's anger, no, but it helped and if a conversation was to be had with Dad, every bit of help was welcome.

Instead Mr. Flitwick was picking his gestures very carefully and his words even more so. He drew no wands, he cast no magic, he made no weird gesture that would by any way be construed as a threat. There were no mention of Aunt Lily and Uncle James, no mention of Vol- _You-Know-Who_ , no casual dismissal of “muggles” nor excited curiosity about the same.

What he did say was a very truncated, impersonal, _business-like_ statement: Harry Potter would do very well in Hogwarts and so would Dudley, and everything would go right if the most respectable _Mr. and Mrs Dursley_ would only let them do their work.

At the insinuation Dad very nearly exploded. “And... and you expect _us_ to _pay_ to turn Dudley into one of you _freaks_?” he screamed.

Mr. Flitwick was completely unfazed. “That's very much a matter of... due procedures, Mr. Dursley. You can rest assured that if your son's performance exceeds expectations, he'd be eligible to scholarships, grants and other benefits.” His monocle tipped, his lips curled beneath the finely-groomed moustache, his eye gleamed behind the glass. “Surely you are aware of the prestige and history of our academic institution?”

The answer, Dudley was aware, was no. Dad knew as much about Hogwarts as he did about a school for heroes run by a hamster-man – which was to say none at all. But at the same time to be a Dursley meant to be pathologically deferential to folks who presented themselves in such immaculately business-like manners, and even Dad's equally pathological hatred for anything abnormal had to give way soon enough.

The rest of the meeting went on amicably – or as amicably as it could have been with Dad turning red as a tomato hyperventilating and Mom making weird gestures beneath the counter. Lips were pursed, threats were issued, swear words were hastily bitten back, fists were shook in the air, and Dudley couldn't recall Dad having ever hissed so much or so messily within the space of half an hour.

Never once did the good Mr. Flitwick respond with anything less than a smile and a nod. His words were soft, and polite, and just so, so _logical_ as to amount to threats without being explicitly threatening: “ _Do you want to have your kitchen blow up again?_ ” was his argument, although of course not in those exact words. In the end, Dad, large and angry and fuming as he always was, relented. Mum's lips were pressed into a thin line, so thin it very nearly disappeared, and she exhaled so hard and so tiredly once dad finally nodded.

It had been _her_ battle too, in more than one way.

Dudley and Harry saw the short, stout, impeccably dressed man out, because Dad and Mum wouldn't. Honestly, at this point they would ask for nothing but.

“That was amazing, sir!” said Dudley, because what else could he say to someone who'd pretty much _beat_ Dad at his own game of social etiquette?

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Harry, so full of excitement for much the same reason.

Mr. Flitwick gave Dudley a look, and gave Harry a _look_.

“There's more magic than you thought possible beyond the mere swish-and-flick, Misters Potter and Dursley, if you care to look.” He tipped his hat. “I shall see you gentlemen this coming Saturday, if you would be punctual.”

And so in this world, too, Dudley's arrival at a dream academy was also announced by a man in a suit – tiny rather than huge, restrained rather than bombastic, and so utterly British rather than Yankee in all ways. But he was a man in a suit who delivered, and that was all that mattered.

More importantly, an arrangement had been made, a time prescribed, and a yellowed, Regency-looking postcard pushed into Harry's hand.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Potter,” said Mr. Flitwick, and vanished into the foggy pavement like a Picaresque hero.

Suddenly, that drawing Dudley was doing of a hero with a lion's mane and an indefatigable smile as a birthday present for Harry looked so small, so insignificant.

And it was perfectly fine.

***

It was less than an hour from Little Whinging to Woking Railway Station, and then forty-five minutes by train to Waterloo. Harry was quiet, and he assumed Dudley was quiet for much the same reason. Trains were not very interesting or exciting, not as much as quiet introspection.

“Harry?” came Dudley's shaky voice amidst the grinding train-wheels. “Keep the plan, won't you?”

“Yeah, yeah, heard you,” he said. “No 'creepy' drawling, no scary grins, no exploding things, no threatening to  _murderize_ people.”

“No running off without Mr. Flitwick saying yes,” added Dudley.

It was  _just_ like Dudley to come up with such things as “careful” and “don't be rash” and “observe”. Tiring, yes, and frequently pathetic. But then Harry had had more than his share of dreams, of charging head-first into a trap because  _he was confident_ and  _he wouldn't lose_ , of turning into a marble and dragged behind a swirling portal, and... and the whole  _crock of shit_ that went to town  _because_ of his rashness. At some point “ _Die, Deku_ ” stopped being funny in his dreams, just as a grean light and a snake-like man stopped being funny.

Harry rubbed the scar on his forehead. No, no, best not think of that now.  _That never happened. Never happened. Never happened._

They met Mr. Flitwick just off Waterloo station. From there it was a short walk to that seedy-looking tavern,  _The Leaky Cauldron_ . Dudley wow'ed real loud when the back wall opened into an archway leading into that enormous shopping district that was  _Diagon Alley_ . Harry was about as impressed, but he made a point not to show it. Because at the back of his mind something told him, in its proud, proud voice, that  _you've seen weirder things_ .

In fact, he was on a roll taking everything in stride – he was fitting  _better_ into that enormous crowd that Dudley, who simply  _couldn't_ stop jotting everything he could cram into that notebook of his – until the moment they entered the huge, bourgeois  _Gringott's_ . 

“Bles' me, isn't that Harry!”

The voice, as it happened, belonged to this giant of a man, standing easily eight feet tall and nearly as much across at the nearest teller. His beard and his trench-coat were as gigantic as his girth, and he stuck out a hand nearly as big at Harry – which, of course, Harry took, because he was  _Harry Potter_ and that meant nothing could or should scare him, not even extraordinarily enormous men acting friendly coming out of nowhere. For good measures, he added one of his now-trademarked toothy grin – which  _did_ unnerve the giant a little, judging from his twitching mustache.

Not that he knew what to say, of course, and would have stood there grinning awkwardly had Mr. Flitwick not approached when he did. “A very good morning indeed, Hagrid!” he said. “Hogwarts business, I presume?”

The giant of a man nodded grimly, and at once his smile vanished. “'ndeed, Professor Flitwick, Hogwarts business.” He looked like he _might_ have said more if Mr. Flitwick would entertain, but then the goblin teller handed him back a letter with the Hogwarts seal on it. “Well, off I go. Good luck with tha' shopping, Harry!” His voice was rueful. “Wish I'd knew yer here t'day, I'd hav' got yeh summat fer yeh birthday present...”

Then he turned around and hurried off into the tunnel with a goblin taking the lead, as if it was something dreadfully unpleasant he just _had_ to get done right away. All of this happened before Harry could get a word in; and Harry felt like he'd committed a gaffe – not that he _usually_ minded gaffes too much.

“Do I... know him?” he asked, and his eyelids were twitching _now_. Talk about delayed reaction.

“Rubeus Hagrid,” said Mr. Flitwick. “Keeper of Doors and Keys at Hogwarts. Good man, when you get down to know him.” He paused. “He was always quite fond of your parents.”

Harry's thought that the wizarding world was not _that_ overwhelming changed as they went speeding down a rickety rail miles beneath London. He could almost _see_ his own wicked grin as he sped along the rail-line, long before he saw what an _absolute_ _hoard_ his parents had left behind for him. Dudley squeaked, and jotted down something fierce in that notebook he always kept on his person.

Next destination, tailor's. Measurements wasn't a problem. Funky-looking robes that looked awfully restricting weren't a problem.  _Dudley_ of all people asking whether the robes were explosion-proof wasn't a problem ( _Seriously, that is my line!_ ). 

No, the problem was that pointy-faced whinger who kept talking and talking about how only children born of wizards and witches should go to Hogwarts. Harry didn't even need to turn aside to know it touched Dudley in a very sore spot, and not only because of who the Dursleys were, but also what came long before that.

“Meant what you said?” said Harry, and cracked a knuckle – making sure as many sparks crackled beneath the robe as he could. After all, Madam Malkin had said their robes were explosion-proof 'to a certain extent'.

At once the white-faced ratty fellow turned a degree whiter. “W-what are you  _suggesting_ ?”

“Merely asking  _very f-... very politely_ if you meant what you said.” Harry's last word,  _'shithead'_ (because it wouldn't be an angry Harry without a swear word or two) was almost inaudible, a feat he was doubtlessly very proud about.

The tension was only alleviated somewhat when Mr. Flitwick came poking his head into the foyer. Count on snobbish father's-boys to be well dismissed with a “good morning” and a “See you in Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy.” He did turn his nose up and made an exaggerated feet-dragging motion out of the store. Harry thought it a small triumph not to blast him into a wall, or something.

“Draco Malfoy,” said Mr. Flitwick. “Though, come to think of it, he probably would do very well in  _my_ house, if only...” His voice trailed off, and it would be long before Harry would know exactly why.

In comparison, the visit to Ollivander's was neither exciting nor eventful, at least at first. Dusty, old shopkeepers weren't very fun. Musty old shops full of older boxes weren't very fun. Trying on and on and on and  _on_ for the right wand and finding nothing  _right_ (At least, according to the one-and-only Mr. Ollivander) wasn't fun at all. Harry did not know if the fact that Dudley found his wand  _right away_ (twelve inches, hornbeam, dragon heartstring – and when he waved it his blond hair-dye just  _melted_ into thin air, leaving that mess of green atop his head) was something he should be proud of or angry/jealous about. Or both.

“Be patient, Mr. Potter,” said Mr. Flitwick. “You know what they say – the wand chooses the wizard-”

It was then, right then, that Harry found his. And Harry just  _knew_ it was the right one, even before Mr. Ollivander clapped and cry. Why?

Because no sooner had he given the wand a fierce, exasperated wave, than the entire shop-counter went  _up_ . Such was the explosion even Harry was taken aback. He might have screamed  _“Die, wand, die”_ a mite too loudly inside, come to think of it.

Thankfully, the proprietor was much unharmed, only covered in a fine layer of wood chips, dust and soot. Not that the predicament chilled his enthusiasm any: he started going on about how 'the phoenix that whose tail feather is in your wand gave just another' and how it kind-of-sort-of tied him to the Dark Lord (read: the asswipe that murdered his parents) and somesuch.

Whatever. As long as the wand exploded  _well_ , Harry would be happy enough. 

Mr. Ollivander's voice trailed behind the trio long after they had left the store. “Oh, and don't you worry, oh, well, about the counter,” he said. “Nothin' a good  _reparo_ can't fix... such curiosities, hmm...”

Final destination of the day was the  _Magical Menagerie._ Top of the line pet shop, according to Mr. Flitwick, and while he did not say so outright Harry was certain the hobbitish man was there to monitor just  _what_ Harry and Dudley were going to get.

An owl hooting on a cage caught Harry's attention. It was slightly overzied for an owl, all told. Its hoots were louder than all the rest, and more often too. And its matted feathers were also in a bit of disarray  _just like Harry's hair_ . Perfect, perfect and perfect. They were a match made in heaven.

Harry's decision was immediate and final. “Can I name him  _Explosion Murder Lord_ ?”

Again Mr. Flitwick gave Harry a _look._ “Mr. Potter,” he said. “This owl is female.”

Harry blinked. “Oh, I see.” His pause took a second flat. “ _Explosion Murder Lady_ it is then!”

Dudley, for his part, stared long at one white cat at the corner of the shop. The shopkeeper caught him looking, and shook his head.

“That one's damaged good, lad,” he said with a huff. “Shied away from most potential buyers, it did! I'm only keeping her out of the goodness of our heart – not like any self-respecting wizardly children would-”

But Dudley would not tear his eyes off the cage. There the cat sat, so quiet and so tiny in a cage too large and too small at the same time. Her meow was barely like a whisper unto itself; she shied into a corner away from Dudley as he approached. 

So, so slowly Dudley bent down to her level, and stuck out his hand. His thick fingers were shaking a little. “Come here,” he begged. “Please.”

And, miraculously, just like in one of those children's book, the cat lifted herself up and began  _tiptoeing_ (well, if cats did tiptoes) towards Dudley. It meowed thrice, weak and meek at first, but soon dramatically stronger and more... excited-sounding, so to speak? 

“Why, she actually likes you!” exclaimed the shopkeeper. “Thank Merlin for small mercies!”

Dudley merely nodded. “Eri.” he said, so naturally and poignantly, like an  _I'm so, so sorry_ condensed into two syllables. “Her name is Eri.”

“Splendid name,” said Mr. Flitwick. “Now, see, Mr. Potter, we would prefer our pet animals' names to be short, solid and roll well off the tongue, like Mr. Dursley's-”

For once Harry would not begrudge Dudley for a praise. At the same time, his pet's name was unnegotiable.

“ _Explosion Murder Lady_ .” He repeated. “Or EML for those who wouldn't spell out the whole thing.”

At last Mr. Flitwick relented. He did, however, make his own nickname for Harry's nickname. “Emily it is,” he said. “The Hogwarts pet record wouldn't have enough  _space_ for 'Explosion Murder Lady', you understand.”

Harry didn't talk back. Emily? Pah! Let's see what name the messy old dear would answer to when all was spoken and done. 

But his defiance was short-lived. For the rest of the journey home Dudley didn't say anything, like a storm of memory of some sort or another was tormenting him.

“Dudder?” 

“I-I'm alright, Harry. Just... alright. I guess.” Meek, cryptic, just like Dudley was wont to be.

Harry wouldn't intrude. After all, it wasn't like he didn't have visions sometimes, that weaved present with an ephemeral, distant past...

***

 


	5. Omakes: Weasley, Longbottom, Granger

**OMAKES:**

**RONALD WEASLEY: ORIGIN**

 

Ronald Weasley often dreamt himself a girl.  
  
Part of him liked it that way. After all, the image of that shade of brown hair and those quirky brows and that good-natured laugh that remained long after he woke was a salve upon his status: youngest boy Weasley, brother to a throng of greater and grander brothers Weasley, generic and absolutely un-special Weasley. Specifically, there was a flare in her eyes that warmed him to the very heart, that made her older than she looked, that said “I shall help my parents”, and that confidence that said "I have the means".  
  
_Bloody hell_ , he thought, after every dream, _I wish I was that cool_ , girl and cooties notwithstanding _._  
  
This, naturally, he kept to himself. Fred and George would never let him see the end of it if they caught a whiff. Besides, the Weasley household needed only one girl, and her name was Ginevra.  
  
But this part was no secret: Ron Weasley dreamt to go big. Quidditch, Auror, even following Percy's childhood dream of being a Ministry official and resign to the life of a boring git, he could do that too. Again, of this part he told nobody - "Money honestly earnt" was the final goal, and the means did not matter. He was only eight when he saw Molly give Bill an earful about 'being too money-minded'. "Now we can always manage," she'd told the rest of the family so confidently. Somehow the Weasleys always managed.  
  
_But that hardly sound right_.  
  
Ron did not know when exactly, but at some point a crazy idea introduced itself to him and would not let go: maybe he could start building something or renovating others and make a fortune out of it.  
  
Sounded like a good profession all in all: Wizarding Britain, after all, was full of old, dilapidated buildings, that had not seen proper renovation since Queen Elizabeth the First ruled a kingdom that was neither united nor an empire under the sun. Even Hogwarts (and of course his mind would wander to that mythical castle of a boarding school – which wizard boy's mind wouldn't?) had not seen a real renovation effort for so many years. Perhaps there was good Galleons to be made when a hypothetical Principal would look at the castle and its hundred staircases and decide, hey, maybe we should build something new.  
  
The idea was not entirely _his_ , because since he was five he'd dreamt of _that_ ankle-biter of a little girl, her silhouette against a decidedly Muggle construction site with all its steel bars and concrete and stores upon stores of colorful bricks, who'd cried to her parents how she'd like to be a hero to _help_ them with that building business of theirs.  
  
_Sounds good_ , Ron had told himself, sitting cross-legged over the window of his room. _But_ _can I do it?_  
  
“ _Simple, you fly! You fly and you lift objects and you put them in place, just like that!”_ the voice in his head would answer. _“After all, isn't that why you are a_ wizard _?”_  
  
Certain events in his childhood nearly brought an end to the dream, like falling off a toy broom when he was three, or that one time he took a little too much interest in the sound coming from the attic.  
  
Certain others only drew him closer to it. When Fred and George turned his teddy bear into an oversized tarantula, what they did _not_ expect was their little brother quietly swearing vengeance against all arthropods. And what better way, he thought, than to ensure houses, not least _their_ house, be permanently and irreversibly spider-free? So the little boy inventor thought of floating houses suspended on an array of Cleansweeps surrounded by a bubble of anti-insect charms, and wondered how much money it would take to design one. Or how much he would make if he could _sell_ one.  
  
That would be an ambition for another day, when little Ron would grow tall and lanky and street-smart enough to think of outside-the-box solutions to canned problems.  
  
For now, Ron Weasley would go to sleep, dream of a shade of brown hair and quirky eyebrow, and wonder to himself whether he could make things fly in defiance of gravity as easily as touching it...

***

**NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM: ORIGIN**

 

To be Neville Longbottom meant to be no stranger to farewells; though some farewells were less harsh or less harrowing than others.  
  
As it happened, the unfortunate Longbottom of Neville's time never saw very many visitors, and not often for long. Those who stayed long enough for little Neville to crawl on their knees would tell him great stories about his parents. Not the whole story, mind, because Frank and Alice Longbottom were war heroes and no sane adult would tell a war story to a child born in peace and hopefully would live in peace. Their tones were always sympathetic and sorrowful, because no child deserved to have his parents reduced into insanity.  
  
(But then no younger brother deserved to witness his idol of an older brother reduced to a bedridden paraplegic, either, and Neville somehow thought he was no stranger to the latter.)  
  
At any rate Neville's parents had not left him very much in terms of heirlooms. There was no armour suits to be handed over. No hero name to pass on. No sworn enemy for Neville to chase after with tears in his eyes and bloody murder in his sight - at least, not yet and not if his grandmother could help it. No knife in the arm that would leave his fingers near-paralyzed either, again because Augusta Longbottom existed, strict and harsh and altogether matronly as she was.  
  
But there was a wand; a weathered wand bearing the hallmark of his father and a mission unfulfilled.  
  
He beheld that wand, not once, not twice, but once every other day, in the shadow of his grandmother's rickety house where the name _Voldemort_ wouldn't be spoken. Until it was officially _his_ as he turned eleven, Neville thought the wand an honour at the same time he thought it impossible to uphold. It was heavy, in the same way such adult things as _dignity_ and _bravery_ and _heroism_ were heavy and sublime and so, so respectable in equal measures.  
  
Yet to be a Longbottom, no matter how reduced meant to try - and not just try, but try his darnedest because family tradition was a thing, because keeping the peace was a thing and because _being a hero_ was a thing; even more lofty and worthwhile all the same in peace as they were in those veiled war-stories he'd been told.  
  
What would Neville be if not _a hero_?  
  
Well, he could always be a wizard. Just a normal, unassuming wizard. Like every other boy and girl who had made their hair change color or made cups and glass turn funny or bounced like a balloon down a flight of stairs before their eleventh birthday.  
  
Except to be Neville Longbottom meant to be underappreciated, by the universe and consequently by relatives.  
  
For the longest time Neville was, for want of better or kinder words, _Squib-_ like. He didn't float on water (until his grandmother had half a mind to pull him up). Brooms turned inert in his presence. Frogs stared at him from behind glass walls, unperturbed and unthreatened in their insolence. At night, his grandmother would sleep little, her face hardened to losses and despair – this Neville knew.  
  
This, too, he knew like all other permutations of him throughout the multiverse, that the world wasn't fair to the weak and even less so to the timid. He couldn't help being weak, but being timid? Well, he could do something about that.  
  
Because he might not bounce, he might not talk to animals, he might not make strange things happen in his presence... but he could run very fast. Very, very fast.  
  
Not just plain fast, oh, no, that was for Muggle athletes and Neville was nothing but. The first time his granduncle saw him zip clean across the courtyard in a single wind-up he was so, so overjoyed. Neville had magic! Neville was not a Squib because perish that thought, how else could he have done _that_? Could have outrun a hippogriff in heat, he'd sworn!  
  
His granduncle wasn't wrong; he was just _incorrect._ His next attempt to dunk Neville out of the second-floor window ended up with the boy chugging _Skele-gro_ for a week.  
  
Neville's magic truly manifested after his tenth birthday, just several days after the last of his hopeful relatives had despaired. Such magic, incidentally, had nothing to do with his legs. In fact, his magic was quite prosaic: of the sort that made the ground turn all soft and cushy as he fell on it from the second storey entirely by accident. Nothing new, nothing special, nothing hero-like, just enough to guarantee him an owl and a letter sealed with a four-animal emblem with an H on it.  
  
"Well," his grandmother had quipped, "that's how it should be," before pushing his father's old wand into his hand. The message was clear: _You're a wizard now_.  
  
That much ceremony, however, didn't preclude Neville the Wizard from making good use of Neville the Runner.  
  
It was not easy for Neville to rationalize its use at first. Swift legs, after all, were meant for thieves, knaves and cowards who would run than face villains head-on. His father did not run. His mother did not hide. They fought, and though they did not _win_ , nobody could fault their heroism. That was _their_ origin story, their moment of triumph.  
  
Turned out Neville's would not be anywhere as desperate. Running between a muggle truck and an equally muggle boy unaware of mortal danger wouldn't earn him any point with the wizarding society, no, but for every hero there was a time their body would move before their head. That was _his_ origin story, though not quite his moment of triumph.  
  
That day Augusta Longbottom and a nameless Muggle grandmother very nearly lost their respective grandchildren. Neville, for all his recklessness, had another week of Skele-gro and many a stern telling-to, because _wizards don't go around committing such foolishness._  
  
What he did truly gain, was a lesson and a friend, and he thought it was worth the brush with death. If you would ask him after the Incident With The Scary Truck, he'd tell you the kind of speed he had in his calves was as much an asset as strong magic, or a keen eye for potions, or a gift of foresight, or any other high-profile gift a wizard could have asked for.  
  
And he would be right. Augusta would disagree, but Neville would be right.  
  
(Those who had spoken to Neville would notice his near-religious worship of heroism had never changed as he grew older. His pragmatism did. The difference was subtle, yet decisive.)

***

**HERMIONE GRANGER: ORIGIN**

 

Hermione Granger was a dreamer, a fact she would so adamantly deny in polite company. After all, _dreams aren't real_ , her mother had said after a bout of nightmare three-year-old Hermione had had.  
  
But when she woke up at night hot and cold at the same time, her hand placed on her left eye, she wasn't so sure any more. There was no scar there now, but there had been. There was no roaring flame now, but there had been. There was no great tower of solid ice now, but there had been. This much Hermione was sure, though she couldn't explain why. Just as she simply _knew_ there had been a boy: red and white roiling in _blood_ and _death_ and _anguish_ and _rage_.  
  
It was a very great blessing then, that Hermione's family was happy – far happier than the vestiges she saw in those dreams. Her father was happy and caring, and full of books and knowledge. Her mother was happy and kind, and full of words of wisdom. That was important.  
  
What was equally important, was that every night when she fell asleep, poring over some book or another, chances were she'd dream of fire and ice and boiling water and unpleasant, _unsightly_ things. Five-year-old Hermione, for instance, could have lived without seeing, so viscerally, a kettle full of boiling water dumped over her eye. The burn, the pain, the screams haunted her for weeks.  
  
Of such dreams she never said very much. Her parents were both people of the sciences: highly intelligent, highly rational, highly sceptical of things unexplainable – and how could Hermione explain her dreams when it had been scientifically proven that such were products of the human mind during the rapid-eye-movement phase of sleep? She knew: She started with her reading young, and never let up. After all, she was Hermione Granger, and to be Hermione meant being on another level entirely.  
  
But then came the time when those nightmares manifested. Jets of flame erupted from her palm once and nearly set off a fire. Blocks of ice sprouted from her foot and froze the bath over. There were other things, too, like turning her hair red and white (or both), or enlarging and shrinking objects at random.  
  
Perhaps that was why to her deeply rational parents' surprise, a pudgy woman wearing a green robe and pointy hat came knocking one day.  
  
“Hermione's a witch, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” she had said, like it had been a fact and not a speculation. “For which we offer her a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”  
  
It was not a parent-teacher meeting as it was meant to be; it was a debate that would probably have some scientific merit the way Dad made it out to be. And who could blame him? Dad and Mum were both scientists and that meant being curious and wanting answers – doubly true when their only beloved daughter was involved.  
  
It was a debate whose substance Hermione was not entirely interested in, but rather its outcome. Because there in front of her stood a witch, who claimed to have answers of some sort.  
  
Perhaps Hermione had been deluding herself – not a small possibility, that she might _know_ , just as she knew of the other peculiar things that would happen occasionally in Hermione's presence. Perhaps she just wanted to _say_ something, because to be Hermione in whichsoever permutation meant to be so keen on talking and telling and laying bare her vast knowledge for all to admire. Perhaps, too, because at any rate Hermione would not be Hermione without a desire to learn, to master, to _know_.  
  
So she asked. She took a deep breath, told that specter of a boy of red and white and _so much anger_ hovering inside her to shut it so she could speak.  
  
And so Hermione Granger's first afternoon in the wizarding world concluded with a one-hour session outside Florean Fortescue Ice-Cream Parlour. She talked, and talked, and talked some more about fire and ice, about a ghost of a horrible father and a tortured mother, about a boy raised as a weapon and very nearly ended that way, while Professor Sprout listened and nodded her head sagaciously. It was in many ways a conversation between a wide-eyed eleven-year-old with a master forty years her senior, and a long-delayed talk between a lost soul crying 'help me' and a kindly soul saying 'will do'.  
  
Many years later, Hermione would recall the talk wasn't as successful or enlightening as she thought it had been, or should have been. If the matronly witch had known anything, she never said as much. Of Hermione's fears and dreams she offered no solid advice. Of that specter, no closure. Of the fire and ice, no answer but _accidental magic._  
  
But this she did say: that it was up to Hermione. It was up to her if she would use all those dreams and visions or not at all. It was up to her if she'd forge them into something else, overwrite them with something else, _trump_ them by something else. It was up to her if she would master them or be mastered by them.  
  
And that, said Professor Sprout, was the point of Hogwarts. Because Hogwarts was where dreams were made, and where dreams come true – but only to those who would care to make it happen.  
  
(At that time Hermione did not know yet that this applied to both good and bad dreams.)  
  
“Here's your prescribed reading, Ms. Granger, and then some more,” said Professor Sprout, and added some of her own books to Hermione's already hefty bag. “You will read them, will you?”  
  
The small smile on Hermione's lips turned into a full grin.  
  
This time around, something told her deep inside, she would excel on her own accord.  
  
_Because sorry, the difference between our levels is just too great._


	6. Part the Fifth

**PART THE FIFTH**

 

Dudley's last month with his family was depressing in a lot of ways.  
  
Now Dad and Mum left Harry alone. To a lesser extent, they'd left Dudley alone too, and somehow that was worse than the other option.  
  
At night Mum cried. She ghosted into the kitchen at seven in the morning with her eyes both sunken and red. Dudley alone knew this: because Dad never quite looked so carefully at Mum, and Harry didn't have any reason to. For his part Dad did a very, very good job of talking (more like bellowing) about his work and golf even more than normal, as if so stubborn in the belief that if he worked hard enough in the _being normal_ department he'd count for everyone else's part too.  
  
Because whichever the state of the world, one thing was always true of adults: the fear of changes, and complete changes even more so.  
  
(Dudley would later learn that wizards and witches feared changes even more than the Muggles at whom they turned their collective noses up, and those men and women who had no such fear... well, he'd learn to hate – or at least strongly distrust – them in a lot of ways.)  
  
Once or twice Dudley sat on his bed looking out of the window of his bedroom and wondered if he had made the right choice with the whole Hogwarts thing. Because his hair was green beneath all the dye, and he knew of a green-haired boy who once had everything in short supply except motherly love. In the other room, he knew Harry was reading furiously under the dusty lampshade. Not that Harry liked studying any more than the average eleven-year-old, but his desire to be _the strongest wizard ever_ wasn't just lip-service.  
  
Harry's desire to be the best, the greatest, the strongest had _never_ been a mere boast.  
  
And then, of course, there were the two additions to their family.  
  
Much as Emily ( _Because seriously, Harry?_ ) has this annoying habit of flying off all night and returning at six with dead mice between her beaks, her presence was for the most part a positive addition: she made Harry laugh and scowl and emote through those late summer days that weren't supposed to be so slow and dreary. Besides, sneaking dead rats out of the house wasn't problematic in the slightest. Dudley was always willing to help and there was also Harry's cold-blooded _acquaintances_ who were ever hungry.  
  
“Told them to take care of themselves when I'm not around. Like move to the next county or something.” He paused. “Wouldn't be right to come back next Summer to find none of the idiots around because some wanker's called an exterminator or something.”  
  
(Harry did tell – more like _order –_ the snakes of one matter _:_ “ _Leave my cousin's family alone or I will fucking murder you_ ”. Violence aside, that was just so _Harry_ Dudley couldn't help but smile.)  
  
Eri, however, was another matter entirely. She shied away from most people, adults most of all and particularly Dad, who honestly would cut a menacing figure with or without the shouting and hollering. If not for the fact that _Dudley_ was in the house he thought Eri might have run away more than once.  
  
“What, never saw adults being idiots?” said Harry, reaching a hand out for her back. She didn't appreciate, and very nearly bolted out of Dudley's arms.  
  
Dudley gave Harry a _stare_ and a _hiss_.  
  
(It was natural that a Dursley could pull off a mean threatening hiss _._ )  
  
“Least in Hogwarts there wouldn't be such adults,” he said. It was more of a hope than a statement, but that helped, and white, scraggly-furred Eri fell asleep in his lap.  
  
Harry didn't know - after all, he hadn't been _there_. Dudley knew better, because he _had been_. Perhaps, if cats dreamt, she might have those dreams like Dudley's, too, of a time that may or may not have existed, of tales that may or may not have existed, of _loss_ and _pain_ and _tragedy_ that may or may not have existed.  
  
There was no way he could know for sure one way or another, and part of Dudley wished he would never find out. All he could do was cradle that delicate cat of his, and hand-feed her those tiny strips of well-done beef; his eyes poring over the volumes on the history of magic and the habitats of fantastic beasts.  
  
Because to bear that mass of unruly green hair atop his head was like a vow: to protect. To be strong. To bear hope for those who would need it.  
  
The day before the Hogwarts Express was due to leave, Mr. Flitwick came around again, still impeccable and immaculate as the first time because anything less would not do for the Dursley. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary (for wizards-in-training, that was) or unexpected: merely a reminder that everything was in order, that the train would leave at eleven sharp, and, of course, that the Hogwarts platform nine-and-three-quarter was located _between_ the platforms nine and ten at King's Cross Station.  
  
Dad was not at home, and Mum made a point not to say anything unless it was addressed directly to her. In fact, the only words she said at all was a stiff “Thank you kind sir.” That wasn't meant to be sincere: after all, Mum was to be a proper upper-class woman and that was just what they did. There was no way Mr. Flitwick didn't know, but he thanked her right back and never once dropped the old wealthy Londoner look about him.  
  
“Well, that's all for now,” he told the two boys. “I'll see you at school – here's to a good year full of learning, gentlemen.”  
  
Dudley turned around. Mum had left the living room, presumably back to somewhere quiet. That was all she did those days.  
  
“Will it...” he asked. “Will it be okay, sir?” Dudley's voice choked a little: he was for many reasons wise beyond his years, but not nearly enough to vocalize _what_ was wrong in his family.  
  
Mr. Flitwick regarded him fondly. “It will be, Mr. Dursley,” he said. Had he been taller perhaps he might have patted the boy on the shoulder. He was short, so a nod was all he could afford.  
  
(It was only much later that Dudley realized Professor Flitwick completely misunderstood his question while Dudley completely misunderstood the answer. Sometimes two wrong _did_ indeed make a right.)  
  
The day the Dursleys took their big fancy car to London, the sky was clear and sunny. But inside Dad was swearing at absolutely everything, and Mum was keeping her make-ups on and her lips pressed and her fists balled tight around her handbag. That was just how the Dursley carried themselves, everyone would think.  
  
“Everything is alright, Darling?” said Mum, and she was choking on her words.  
  
Dudley nodded. In a way, everything _was_ alright. There was no painful surgery to remove a pig's tail malevolently implanted. Dudley wasn't finicky and screaming and running out of the room whenever Harry entered. Aunt Marge did send not one, not two, but three presents when Mum lied to her he was going to Smeltings.  
  
But it was the Dursley family, and that meant the year nineteen ninety one was inevitably one of change and pain: a surgery that cut far, far deeper than Dudley's own rump tissue.  
  
Dudley gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. _Be strong, Dudley. Be strong for Mum_.  
  
“It's alright, of course!” he exclaimed. “Because I am here!”  
  
It was not an ironclad manifesto, not when Dudley himself was on the verge of tears. But behind those words there was the icon of a man who never gave up smiling; because smiles brought hope.  
  
“Enough of this sappy freakishness,” said Dad. “Geroff my car.”  
  
And so Dudley and Harry left behind Dad's cars, filled with Dad's expletives and Mum's quiet sobs, and looked towards a platform between two platforms.

***

In some other universes that may or may not exist, Ronald Weasley's first impression of Harry Potter might be nothing less than perfect.  
  
In this universe, he heard Harry before he saw heads or tails of the Boy-Who-Lived. Wheels grinding against the tiled floor. Luggage clinking atop a piled trolley. A terrified hoot of an unwilling owl. A roar of “DIIIIEEEE!” in the middle of busy King's Cross Station.  
  
And, of course, the odd noise that sounded like “ _Mimblewimbl_ e” back on the Muggle platform.  
  
The muggle security guards were staring unamusedly at the poor sot the git left behind. He was a slightly round, flustered, and confused chap with green-dyed hair standing as if struck by a Full-Body Bind in the middle of an unfriendly station. One need only look at the trolley full of wizardly supplies and a cat in a cage on top to know that yes, this was a first year like him – Muggleborn, too, if the confusion was of any indication.  
  
“Looks like _somebody_ 's got into trouble,” said Fred with a chuckle.  
  
“Wouldn't be right for the Weasley family to leave things that way, eh?” said George. He elbowed Percy on the back. “Know what I mean?”  
  
“Quiet, you,” said Percy the Prefect. He straightened his back and took long strides towards the poor sod – because that was what _Prefects_ do, if Ron would let him remind everyone. Mum ran right after him, because Prefect or no Percy was still Percy to Mum.  
  
Extricating the poor chap from the crowd of curious muggles weren't an issue – not when both Percy and Mum were around. The real issue began when Mum started hovering around the fellow – unsurprisingly.  
  
“First year, aren't you, dear?” she asked.  
  
“Uh... yes, ma'am, I guess so.” He stared into the bespelled pillar of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. “Sorry, that's my cousin Harry. He's a bit... overenthusiastic about the whole Hogwarts business-”  
  
Mum blinked. “Harry? As in, Harry _Potter_ , dear?”  
  
“Yeah,” said the boy. Then his eyes opened wide and there was a _gulp_ in his throat. Explainable: Everyone - including Ron himself - was staring at him like their father would have stared at an exceedingly curious Muggle artifact.  
  
Fred clapped. “You mean...”  
  
George whistled. “The famous...”  
  
“Harry Potter...”  
  
“... is your _cousin_?”  
  
Mum just kept blinking in disbelief – the same sort of exasperation-coated face she would wear whenever a Weasley would do something _revolting_. Ginny hid her gasp behind her palm. Ron would sympathize, too. Ginny just missed seeing _Harry bloody Potter_ by a hair, and based on the sound he had just heard it was for the best.  
  
Took the more energetic members of the Weasley family five seconds flat to hover around the poor fellow, staring at him like he was eyewitness to a history-changing moment.  
  
“So, what's he like?” asked Fred. “Read he once whacked a troll half to death wandless.”  
  
“No, heard he's a total git!” declared George. “Because only gits could survive... whatever it is that he survived!” At which point Fred started nodding furiously.  
  
Ginny, however, was turning steadily and rapidly redder and redder. “Harry's not a git!” she exclaimed.  
  
The conversation, as per standard Weasley operating protocol, could have gone on for ages along that line, had Mum not stepped in and put her foot down. Literally.  
  
“Shush, you!” She clapped her hands. “Introductions later, you've got a whole year at school! Now hurry, we're nearly late for the train! Percy, you first.”  
  
First came Percy, as was the Weasley clan pecking order; striding through the pillar looking all fine and dandy in his sweeping robe (His Prefect badge was shining). Then came George, then Fred (Not without, as per normal, each pretending to be the other. Sometimes even Ron couldn't tell.)  
  
All through this the green-haired boy was standing... there. Worried? Maybe. Afraid? Perhaps. Confused? Definitely.  
  
“Uh...”  
  
But Mum, being Mum, was quick to swoop in. “Not to worry, dear,” she said. “Just follow Ron here, and you'll do all right.”  
  
The green-haired chap bit his lip. He nodded once, and glanced at Ron.  
  
“Ready when you are,” he said, and what else could Ron have done but smile back?  
  
It wasn't like Ron wasn't nervous himself. Platform Nine-And-Three-Quarters always had a way of making an eleven-year-old nervous. So he gulped, and drew in a long breath, and grabbed the trolley handlebar with both hands.  
  
He broke out in a run. His eyes were closed. His teeth clenched. So not the way he had intended his first brush with Hogwarts student life to come round.  
  
When the warm heat and steam hit his face and the chatters and laughters of so many witches and wizards washed over him, Ron knew he was through. The Hogwarts Express never changed – yet somehow it was all too different now that he was the one to ride it into a castle where dreams came true.  
  
And then he heard a yelp, and a sharp meow, and the distinct sound of a trolley wheel going _wrong_ behind him.  
  
He whipped around. The green-haired boy and his trolley was wobbling just past the barrier.  
  
Ron found himself reaching his hand out before his brain could work; so naturally, as if he had done this before at least once. He caught the side of the trolley just before it tipped over, because at the end of the day Ron was still tall for his age and all that reach _had_ to be useful somewhere.  
  
“Whoa, watch out, mate,” he said. “It's unlucky to trip on your first day to school!”  
  
Ron didn't know why he was smiling the way he was. His face was too gaunt and too bony for a smile that bright. Yet there it was, and it worked well enough: the green-haired boy was smiling, and his trolley stable with two pairs of hands firmly keeping it upright.  
  
And there, near the steps up the train down the line his brothers. Fred was doing a fist-bump. George was giving a thumb-up. And Percy – Percy! Was slow-clapping.  
  
"Good save." admitted Percy.  
  
"Keeper material?" said George.  
  
"Keeper material." said Fred.  
  
A little further away, a hand was raising in the air.  
  
“Dudder!” he cried. “Took you bloody long enough!”  
  
The fringe of his hair parted, just so slightly, for the entire Weasley family to catch a glimpse of that near-legendary lightning-shaped scar beneath. Harry Potter was standing there, that git, in all of his glory and daftness, one hand on his hip and the other on the trolley's handlebar, lips parting in a toothy grin that might as well have read “ _I own the damn place._ ”  
  
Ron sighed and groaned inside.  
  
This was going to be a _fun_ year.

***

Hermione had driven her trolley through the pillar like she'd owned the place. The fire and ice within her would not have it any other way.  
  
And yet she couldn't help but let off a very childish “wow” more appropriate to her age as Platform Nine Three-Quarters stretched out before her like a collapsible panorama.  
  
So many people. So many oddities. So much _life_. Steam gushed out from the train engine like a documentary given life. Black robes billowed in the air in rhythm with so many steps old and young alike. Owls hooted. Cats meowed. Several shouts and screams echoed from the back as someone cried “SPIDER!”  
  
This was what her new world looked like.  
  
“It's all right, Daddy, Mummy,” she said, and waved goodbye to her rational and scientific people who remained ever pale-faced throughout the ordeal. Indeed it was alright: this was just not their world, Hermione knew it.  
  
She made her way through to the carriage where most people were about her height. She settled down in a quiet, unoccupied corner next to the window in an empty compartment. The fire and ice within her would not have it any other way.  
  
_Uneventful, isn't it?_  
  
Not a minute had passed before Hermione realize she'd relaxed too soon. Out from nowhere jumped a green, warty, spotty toad as large as her outstretched palms put together. It sprang up over the seat behind Hermione, and fell with a wet thud on the empty seat just opposite.  
  
It was all Hermione could do not to scream. Even the bravest men, after all, would be frightened by sudden terrors – said Tacitus, and Hermione was only an eleven-year-old girl.  
  
But precisely the next second another shout came from the corridor.  
  
“Stop right there, Trevor!” it went.  
  
A shadow lunged through the cabin's open door before Hermione could react any. The figure dashed along the width of the compartment in a single step. He – or so Hermione presumed that was a he – leaped onto the chair opposite to Hermione. He vaulted over it in a swift leap.  
  
The toad stood not a chance: thick fingers had wrapped around its torso before it could so much as utter a _ribbit_.  
  
“Gotcha,” said the figure.  
  
Now Hermione rubbed her eyes and stared at the boy. He _was_ a boy all right, around her age and a bit round about the cheek, wearing short hair and a pair of square glasses. Beneath those glasses his eyes were bright, and his feet seemed deceptively quick. With a whip of his arm he brought the toad back to the cage in his other hand, and stuffed it where it belonged despite all protests.  
  
“Nice jump,” said Hermione. She didn't know if she meant it sincerely or sarcastically: The little buck-toothed girl with curly hair meant the former, the scarred boy of red and white meant the latter.  
  
“Sorry about that,” the bespectacled boy said, scratching the back of his head. “That's my toad. Never likes to sit still in a place.”  
  
Hermione's eyelids jittered.  
  
“I see,” she said. Her eyes were trailing towards the toad with a blink and a shiver.  
  
Hermione never quite liked awkward silence, and yet there it was. She was never quite good at opening polite conversations, and the other fellow wasn't much better. She counted twelve seconds before he actually managed to _say_ anything that wasn't an _um_ or an _uh_.  
  
“Uh... name's Neville Longbottom,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Yours?”  
  
“Hermione Granger,” she said. Then she harrumphed and at once changed the topic. “That looks like an old toad – no offense meant.”  
  
“It is,” said Neville, raising the cage to his eye and then putting it down. “Got it from my granduncle Algie, something of a present upon admission. I was afraid it probably won't do that well in Hogwarts, but Gran insisted I lug him along-”  
  
Hermione quirked a brow. “Oh?” The inner show-off within her flared up. “And why would you say that?” she paused, and then added without thinking much, “What have you known about Hogwarts?”  
  
Neville shrugged. “Not that much, I admit” he said. “But I'd like to think it the pinnacle of wizarding culture! Orderly, regimented... enchanted, and-.”  
  
Hermione sniffed. “Well, I've learnt all I can about Hogwarts,” she said, and was sure it wasn't a boast. “I've memorized _Hogwarts: A History_ , and-”  
  
All of a sudden Neville looked positively _outraged_. “Now hold it right there,” he sat down – uninvited, of course – and started flailing his arms about. “Wizarding culture is a long and prestigious business! You can't honestly claim to know _all that there is to know_ about Hogwarts out of just one book!”  
  
“Oh, really?” said Hermione. “Do educate me then.”  
  
What happened next was the mother of all debates that two eleven-year-olds were likely to hold.  
  
The train's honking and the sound of wheels grinding against the rail line did not stop the debate taking off. The train left the station as they were arguing the merit of the House Cup throughout history and whether it would foster wizarding solidarity. The stuffy station outside the window had long passed by, in its place now the green meadows of Merry England, when the topic turned to whether Quidditch was a good addition to academic life and whether it was too expensive for the more financially-challenged witches and wizards. Sheeps from the greens outside were staring at them while they spculated _what_ sort of spell, and how much effort was in its making, that made the ceiling of Hogwarts look like a starry sky.  
  
Something inside told Hermione to _stop_ and that _you're talking too much_ and that _keep your quiet for the sake of whatever deity there are_. She ignored it. Heck, that was a good debate she was having and that ghost of a red-and-white boy could go stuff his head into a toilet or something.  
  
As was the case with Hermione, her debates would always come interrupted by _something_. This time, it was her keen eyes and a smidgen of common sense she still kept on her person. The cage door had come undone – or perhaps it had never been latched in the first place.  
  
“Excuse me,” she said, pointing at the cage. “Is it just me or did Trevor run off _again_?”  
  
Neville's neck creaked audibly towards the cage. His jaw turned a little squarer than it was before.  
  
“Oh, for Merlin's sake!” He looked like he'd let himself loose and utter an expletive or two, when a faint _ribbit_ came from outside the compartment. At once he grit his teeth, and came flying off the seat like one of those sci-fi “jet pack” things that Hermione had read once in one of Dad's favorite books.  
  
“Hey, wait for me!” cried Hermione. Now there was something the boy had her beat: he was just so, so much faster. He slowed down a little so she knew where he was going – but only just.  
  
“ _Boys_.”  
  
Still, Hermione couldn't help but smile. Perhaps this was how new friends were to be made: with an argument about the etiquette of wizarding culture, followed by a chase along several train carriages in search of a runaway toad.  
  
_Hermione Granger_ wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
